


Over for today

by Builder



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Flu, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Overworking, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 14:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12655755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Nothing can stop Spencer from working, not even illness...





	Over for today

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @Builder051.

He knows early on that it’s not going to be a good day.  Spencer rolls to the edge of his bed to silence the alarm clock that’s threatening to bore a hole in his skull with its unwelcomely loud chiming.  His body feels heavier than usual as he reaches through the cold November air and slides the switch on top of the plastic clock.

He quickly sheds his pajamas and slouches to the bathroom to splash water on his face and take a brush to his hair.  Though he’s still squinting with sleepiness, Spencer gives his reflection a good once-over.  He doesn’t care much for the countenance that stares back, so he drops his eyes to the cracked laminate countertop.  He’s pale, with dark circles under his eyes.  His hair looks especially dark in contrast to his skin, and it falls around his chin, drawing attention to collarbones that are a little too prominent, and, as the eye runs further down, ribs that probably shouldn’t be so visible.

He should probably eat a little better.  But Spencer rarely has time for sustenance besides over-sweetened coffee and occasional takeout.  This morning, for example, he should grab something like a granola bar or a piece of toast on his way out the door.  But the longer he stands there, the more it looks like there’ll only be time to grab his briefcase and sprint out the door.

Spencer’s 3 minutes early for the start of his shift, but for him that means he’s right on time.  Caffeine is the first order of business, and he pours himself a Styrofoam cup of steaming liquid before he even sits down at his desk.  The headache that’s becoming routine starts pounding as he dumps multiple packets of sweetener into his beverage.

There’s a new manila folder on top of Spencer’s neatly ordered desk.  He flops into his chair, careful not to spill his precious coffee, and immediately flips open the packet of photos to take a look.

They show three women, all artificially blonde, all middle-aged, and all dead.  Dumped in some kind of swamp grass.  Stab wounds and bloodied clothing making them look like leftover Halloween decorations of the worst possible kind.

A chill wracks Spencer’s shoulders.  He’s not normally bothered by gore; he wouldn’t be able to do his job if he was.  He holds his coffee close to his face and inhales the warm vapor coming off the top.  Spencer takes a small sip, hoping the uncomfortable flip his stomach produces in response is just a fluke he can forget about.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Morgan calls across the bullpen when he arrives a few minutes later.  “Getting a head start?”

“Hm?”  Spencer looks up from the photo absorbing his attention.  Despite all the staring, he can’t seem to take in the details.  And apparently it’s the same case with Morgan’s words.

“Haven’t drunk all the coffee, have you?” Morgan asks, swinging by Spencer’s desk on the way to his own.

“No, I’m…this is my first cup,” Spencer replies.  He clears his throat to rid his voice of the sleepy, gunked-up tone it carries.

“You ok?” Morgan poses, piercing Spencer’s gaze with his own.

“Oh, yeah.”  Spencer takes a sip of coffee while he brews up an excuse.  “Just, didn’t sleep very well last night.”  It’s a lie.  For once, he did sleep through the night.  But it seems to have hardly made a difference because he’s still exhausted.  Plus headachy, and cold, and lacking interest in consuming anything, even coffee.  His symptoms seems to be compounding under his nose.  But admitting he feels sick is about the last thing Spencer wants to do today.

“Well, get going on that coffee, then,” Morgan says with a sympathetic chuckle.  He nods at the case file on Spencer’s desk.  “I think you’re gonnaneed it.”

Half an hour later, the agents are in the briefing room.  Garcia walks them through the basics of the situation: three women dead over three days, and each kill more violent than the last.  Spencer slumps over the conference table, his elbow on the hard wood and his chin resting in his hand.  The blown up images on the projection screen seem to be vibrating before his eyes.  Spencer isn’t sure if it’s something happening with the technology or if the tremor in his fingers is working its way through his whole body.  He blinks hard, but nothing happens.  Except for the drip that decides to tickle the end of his nose.

“Wheels up in twenty,” Hotch is suddenly saying.  Spencer’s sure there was a good amount before that, but he’s completely missed it.  Everyone shuffles their papers and heads back to the bullpen to collect their things.  Spencer stays bent forward for a moment, bringing his fists to his eyes in an attempt to collect himself.  His hands are cold and his face is warm.  An ache in his low back is beginning to skulk up toward his shoulders, leaving the greater part of his body feeling tender and sore.

“Hey Spence?”  A soft hand comes down on the back of Spencer’s chair, then on his shoulder.  “What’s going on?” JJ asks.

“I’m…I’m ok,” Spencer says, his voice choked with the sour taste in his throat.  His palms are growing sweaty, and he unclenches them to press them flat to the table.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Spencer weakly insists.  But then the dim room tips slightly to one side, and he has to drop his clammy forehead to the hard surface in front of him.

“Hey, breathe, ok?” JJ instructs.  She strokes Spencer’s arm and leans toward him.  He can see the ends of her long blonde hair dancing on the wood grain of the table in the low light.

Even her dainty touch is oppressive, and Spencer shrugs JJ’s hand away.  “Alright, it’s ok,” she intones.  “Is it a headache?  I can tell you’re nauseous.” Though she doesn’t touch him again, Spencer can sense her fingers hovering over the exposed skin on the back of his neck.  “You’re really warm…”

“I’m fine,” Spencer chokes out.  His throat is closing up around the urge to vomit.  “Just need to…go get my bag.”

“No, no, if you’re feeling this bad, I know you don’t want to go hop on a jet…”

“I can work.”  Mucousy and acidic saliva is getting harder to swallow back down.  He gags involuntarily and sends a fine spray of coffee-tinged spit onto the conference table.

“Ok, it’s ok,” JJ soothes.  Her footsteps hurriedly pad around the table, then back with the addition of a rustling trash bag.  “Here you go.”  She holds it while Spencer shifts 45 degrees and starts dry heaving.

Nothing comes up.  The few sips of coffee he’s consumed are already too far through his system, so it’s all empty air and a few ropes of saliva that fall into the bin.

“You’re alright,” JJ whispers.  She one-handedly pulls out the chair beside Spencer’s and sits, still propping the trash can up on his knees.

A figure appears in the doorway of the dark conference room.  “Is everything ok?” Hotch’s voice asks.  He flips on the light, and Spencer immediately screws his eyes shut against the sudden brightness.

“Just…not feeling so good,” JJ relays as Spencer frantically fights a retch and tries to find words to downplay the obvious.

“I’m fine,” he forces out, sitting back upright and wiping his sleeve over his mouth.  Lightheadedness threatens to down him, but Spencer fights it with white knuckles clamped over the edge of the table before him.

“No, you’re not,” Hotch says.  “You’re sick.  You didn’t need to come in this morning.”

“I can…I just…can still…work,” Spencer pants, knowing he’s fighting a losing battle.

“I’m sure you can work,” Hotch states.  “It’s just not the smart thing to do right now.”  He takes the trash can from JJ’s grip and nods toward the door. She smoothly takes her leave, trailing her hand sweetly over the back of Spencer’s head on her way out.

“Feel better, ok?” she says.

Spencer nods dizzily and wraps his arms around his torso for warmth and to protect his sloshing stomach.

“Reid,” Hotch says.  “Your dedication is impressive.  But you need to take care of yourself first.”

Spencer sighs.

“You can work from here with Garcia.”

Spencer’s alight with the opportunity.

“But, tomorrow.  Or the next day,” Hotch clarifies.  “For now, you need to be at home.”


End file.
